


you told me I was like the dead sea

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: we are building a religion (but I'm telling you, it's you) [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coda, M/M, Morning After, Stiles wouldn't shut up and get out of my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:19:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short-ish coda to "If I go, I'm goin' crazy"</p><p>The morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you told me I was like the dead sea

When Stiles wakes up, he’s not exactly sure what time it is. The curtains in Derek’s bedroom are drawn tightly shut, but it must be daytime, because slivers of light peek through, like the fabric’s about to burst into flames. His body feels like liquid, flimsy, even though he’s pinned under the solid, heavy weight of Derek’s arms….because Derek is there, and he’s in Derek’s bed, and… _he, Stiles Stilinksi, had sex…with Derek Hale._

“Shut up, Stiles.”

 

Stiles jerks as he feels the throaty growl rumbling deep in Derek’s chest, and he looks up to see a half-lidded pair of hazel eyes staring at him intently. And it’s so not fair how ridiculously sexy and put-together the stupid werewolf looks in the morning. When Stiles wakes up, he usually just looks like ass.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” he mumbles sheepishly, burying his face in the crook of Derek’s arm.

 

“ ‘can practically hear the gears in your stupid brain turning,” Derek grumbles. Stiles doesn’t even get a chance to protest before Derek rolls them over so he’s is basically immobile, trapped underneath his bulk. It’s a little unnerving, being moved as if he were no more substantial than a rag doll.

 

“Hey, getting crushed here,” Stiles protests. He shivers, feeling the sharp graze of what he knows are Derek’s teeth as he smiles wickedly into his collarbone, followed by the hot, wet press of tongue as he licks at the abused flesh.

 

“You’re not, you’re fine. Go back to sleep or I really will hurt you.” Derek hums contentedly, nuzzling at Stiles’s cheek before yawning and closing his eyes again.

 

Stiles can’t really remember the last time he slept in—he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. There was always a reason not to—research, saving Scott from some kind of mortal peril, school…

 

And...

 

 _Oh shit._ School. Stiles still has school, and school is a thing that starts in the mornings— _early_ in the morning.

 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hisses, because _holy shit_ he’s late, so fucking late, and his dad is going to kill him because he’s late and oh god, _he’s dead_ , _literally dead._

 

“Move, you stupid werewolf,” he huffs, shoving frantically at Derek’s shoulder until finally he has movement in his limbs again. He scrambles up off the bed, not even realizing or worrying about the fact that he’s completely naked, because he just needs clothes, any kind of clothes really, because he can’t show up to school without clothes…it’s not a thing they allow.

 

He yanks on a shirt he’s sure is Derek’s (because it hangs off of him like a fucking dress, _jesus)_ , swearing under his breath the whole time, and is halfway into a pair of jeans (which could be his or Derek’s, he honestly can’t fucking remember) when he falls victim to the typical Stilinksi spaz attack and ends up falling flat on his face.

 

And, okay, _ow_. He just lies there for a few seconds with his eyes shut because he’s basically helpless and his dignity is most definitely seriously hurt.

 

When he feels slightly less horrified, he opens his eyes and sees Derek leaning over the bed, just staring at him, clearly amused.

 

“I thought this whole mate thing meant you were supposed to keep me safe,” Stiles say childishly.

 

Derek snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, from _serious_ things. It’s not my fault that you’re a clumsy idiot.” Despite the attitude, Derek still helps him up though, lifting Stiles up by his elbows and setting him gently on his feet. He even runs his hands over him, gently, doing a cursory check for any injuries.

 

“Plus, I just wanted to see how long it took before you realized it was Saturday.”

 

Stiles gapes at him, shaking his head. “You—you’re literally the worst.”

 

Derek grins toothily. “Even if it wasn’t, they’d never have let you in the way you look…”

 

“What’s wrong with the way I look?” Stiles pouts.

 

Derek turns him around to look into the mirror, and yeah, okay, _wow_ , he definitely looks like…well, like someone who got _fucked_. His hair is sticking up in all directions, his normally pale skin is pink and inflamed, rubbed raw from Derek’s stubble, and he has the mother of all hickeys stretching from his collarbone to his left ear. The pièce de résistance, however, is the fingertip-shaped bruise over his cheekbone where Derek held him—and, _jesus_.

 

Stiles flushes straight down to his toes. “I look—“

 

“You look like you belong to someone,” says Derek proudly.

 

“Creepy possessive werewolf,” Stiles mutters, but he’s sort of smiling as he says it, reaching up to trace the bruises on his face and neck. It’s probably pretty fucked up, but…he kind of _likes_ them. Yeah, yeah…that’s _definitely_ fucked up, he decides. Though are there really any guidelines for something like this? Stiles isn’t sure, but he’s too stupidly happy at the moment to ruin it with more thinking. Right now he just presses back against Derek’s chest, letting his body relax, letting Derek hold him up.

 

 “Don’t be embarrassed. You’re gorgeous,” Derek murmurs, rubbing circles over Stiles’s hipbones with his thumbs, caging him in. “And I like you in my shirt, you smell like me.”

 

Stiles can’t help it—he mewls when Derek presses up against him, hard and wanting.

 

“Don’t heal them yet,” He says, low and quiet in Stiles ear. It sends goosebumps all the way up his spine.

 

“Don’t want to,” Stiles says, happily letting Derek pull him back toward the bed.

 

_Their bed._

 

 


End file.
